


Got Me Walkin’ Side to Side

by yuffiehighwind



Series: An Eternity in Cheese Country [11]
Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Angst and Humor, Aphrodite Ships It, Bad Dirty Talk, Bets & Wagers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Magic, Multiple Orgasms, Praise Kink, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 00:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuffiehighwind/pseuds/yuffiehighwind
Summary: Feeling angry and rejected by Ares, Discord craves a distraction from everything that’s happened with Xena and the (temporarily) thwarted Twilight. She gets one, and is reminded of the perks of being a goddess.Basically, this retells the events of my fanfic “Consequence of Laughing” and expands upon its implied sex scene.





	Got Me Walkin’ Side to Side

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the time gap between S5E19 "Looking Death in the Eye" and S5E20 "Livia."
> 
> Basically, this retells the events of my 2003 fanfic “[Consequence of Laughing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/560304)” and expands upon its implied sex scene. The terrible, unfunny dialogue is exactly the same, and even some of the sappy prose, but the narration has been more fleshed out. Picks up about halfway through "Consequence," when Discord has begun to smash up the temple.
> 
> Takes place after “[You Don't Look My Type](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154878).” Recounts a conversation Discord has with Aphrodite in my fanfic "[No Apology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686281)."
> 
> Like in the original Greek myth, Aphrodite and Ares are the parents of Deimos and Phobos, even though Deimos and Ares are explicitly cousins in TV canon. This is waaaaay too emphasized here.
> 
> Title is a lyric from the song "[Side to Side](https://youtu.be/SXiSVQZLje8)” by Ariana Grande ft. Nicki Minaj.

 

It should be noted, as the scene is set, that the mighty Goddess of Discord, chaotic villain whose goal is to sow confusion and conflict wherever she goes, currently takes the form of a petite girl not much older than twenty. This avatar has long, thick black hair, and wears a tight armored corset with a black leather skirt. The corset is held up by straps to a leather choker around her neck, and while her cleavage may be exposed, her arms are covered in fishnet lace with studded leather bracers, one shoulder bare, the other arm sleeved entirely. The skirt is short, showing off her pale thighs, but her boots are heavy and knee-high. Her hair is messy, teased out, and has blown in her face. Loose strands hang over two brown, smoky eyes thickly lined with kohl.

Close to tears, her expression is a mix of sadness and resentment. Her body shakes, it is so overcome with emotion. This is nothing like the image she wants to project. The calm, cool and collected war goddess whose plans are never thwarted, and accomplishments are grand.

She grips tapestries and tears them down one by one with sharp nails. Any loose flag or cloth has been ripped to shreds. She moves on to the statue of Ares, God of War, that stands in the center of the room. A blue ball of electricity charges in her right palm, growing bigger and bigger until she throws it underhand at the statue, the force of the bolt smashing it to pieces.

This violence continues, every statue a target, while the morning sun shines through a slit window on the far wall, a pure beam of light that illuminates every corner of the dank sanctum of the God of War.  

The goddess, whose friends and enemies call Discord, continues to systematically destroy every sculpture and mural in the building. It is a former sanctuary for the war god’s followers that has been abandoned, like many temples have in recent years, making it a safe space for her to discharge her stormy emotions.

The building is small, and her rampage over quickly. No idols left to decimate or paintings to vandalize, she has run out of ways to channel her rage, except for the man lounging to the side of the room eating sandwiches and watching her. He appears fascinated but not worried or scared. Maybe a little impressed.

Discord knows what happens next, what she will do to further channel these overwhelming feelings. She hesitates, processing the decision a moment before approaching him. Before straddling him, settling in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. The man is taken by surprise, dropping the sandwich and staring at her with shock and confusion.

This is how the scene begins.

 

* * *

 

Discord didn’t mean for this to happen, she really didn’t, but Ares pushed her. Pushed her over the edge from frustration into rage. Xena tumbled off that cliff and sunk the war god into a deep depression. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t move, wouldn’t respond to Discord’s words or her touch. Dismissed her and every other god with a sigh, and if they wouldn’t leave, a threatening glare. He wanted to be left alone, to think, to grieve. He thought Discord was the pushy one, but his silence pushed right back.

Has it been days, weeks, months, or a year? Discord isn’t sure. It must have been a year, because time flies now with no heroes to harass. The last 40 years have crawled by, each day requiring a new brainstorm of Hercules torture, exploring loopholes around Zeus’ protection, seeking creative ways to get Hercules killed. Discord was wrapped up in more conventional plots but would have liked to niggle at her brother’s heart and tweak his moral compass to corrupt him. Get Hercules to destroy himself. Now she can outright kill him if she wants to, with Zeus and Hera dead. The old Ares may have done just that, may have seized this opportunity to eliminate Hercules once and for all. 

But Hercules doesn’t matter to Ares anymore. The brothers reconciled a while back, calling a truce, during a more peaceful time before Hercules killed Zeus and upended everything. And as for Xena? Well, that chapter's over too.

In the present, Discord has coiled herself around the man sitting on the one piece of furniture she hasn’t smashed into firewood. Dressed in oxblood leather with spiky blonde hair, his outfit is tight, and breeches soon will feel tighter. Discord is rolling her hips slowly, rhythmically, her skirt hiked up with nothing underneath. The man is not a man at all, he is Deimos, God of Terror, a young war god with an equally unassuming human avatar. Neither he nor Discord are particularly terrifying, despite their lofty titles. He doesn’t appear much older than she does, and they could be mistaken for two young humans on their way to their first Bacchanalia festival.

Sure, the god’s hands can blast flames as powerful as her ball lightning, but right now his mouth is gaping like a fish, as if Discord’s embrace is the most unbelievable thing that could be happening. Which isn’t strictly true, or far outside possibility. He’s already been inside her once, on a night she was drunk and sad and curious to try.

Discord was clear that night about what she wanted, listened to his needs as well and they found a way to connect. But the sex was a quick experiment that didn’t last long enough to gauge whether they were actually compatible. Honestly, Deimos had just wanted bragging rights. He didn’t care if she enjoyed the sex or not.

This encounter is going in a different direction. Discord is a cyclone of feeling, passionately desperate to feel anything but sorrow, and this fuels her desire.  

"You'll make it all go away, right?” she says, on the verge of tears. “Make me forget? Just some of it. Just some of the memories."

She wants to forget Xena and Ares, and she should just go to the Lethe and down a cup of cloudy river water. Smashing her brother’s stuff isn’t doing the trick, it isn’t relieving the pain. Maybe if she takes the lead with Deimos, the fear god’s hands, mouth and body will satisfy her aching need to be touched and worshipped and—

“What do you want me to say?” he asks.

Discord thrusts her pelvis harder, more quickly, relishing the feeling of his growing erection against her clit. Deimos moans, then bites his lip to silence himself, trying to look serious.

 “I don’t want you to say anything.”

"Do you want me to say I'd care if you died?” he asks, answering a question she had posed earlier. If Ares would care whatever happened to her.

After Strife was killed with the hind’s blood dagger at the hands of Callisto, every god’s future had become uncertain, and the danger was only heightened when Xena’s child was prophesied to end their reign. Gods who thought themselves immortal began to watch out and be cautious, because babies and blades were out there threatening everything the Olympians had built over millennia.  

She told him she doubted Ares would even notice her death. She was just an insect buzzing around him, insignificant and unwanted, like a mosquito.

“'Cause maybe I would, a little bit, ok?” Deimos is saying, sounding annoyed he must voice the sentiment at all. “Yeah, I'd care if you died. You're not a mosquito, Discord. A little bloodthirsty is all."

Discord stops moving her hips and blinks at him. The genuine affection in his tone surprises her. He can be lying, or he can be completely serious. There’s no way to tell, but he has placed his hands on her lower back, wrapping his arms around her, and it feels nice.

"Dork," she says with an amused snort, moving to extricate herself from his lap. But he holds her in place, not allowing her to move. The tender moment is over, and he’s back to his obnoxious, horny self.

"Uh-uh-uh, you're not getting away so easily,” he says, face breaking out into a devious grin. Deimos grips her buttocks and holds her body still while she struggles to escape, grinding his own pelvis up against her clit. Discord gasps in pleasure but tries to hide it, feigning a more annoyed expression.

"What was it you said about forgetting?” he asks, more confidently. “'Cause I'll make you forget your birthday.” He thrusts again. “I'll screw your brains out until they leak out your ears and you're seeing stars."

The imagery is over the top, and Discord rolls her eyes. There’s no way he’d fuck her that well or that hard. Not after last time.

"All that, huh?" she says sarcastically.

"All that and a bag o' chips, babe,” he says with a laugh.

Even as he jokes and she scoffs, he’s lightly, rhythmically moving his hips, and by the gods, she wishes she was wearing undergarments! His hands have wandered under her skirt now, and to emphasize his statement, he squeezes her naked buttocks.

She tries not to react and says defiantly, "No you couldn't. You can't handle this.” 

And it’s true. She’s destroyed men in bed before, leaving them exhausted and drained, and when too careless with a human, even worse.

"Sure I can,” he says, like it’s a simple fact and not a dare.

"Care to bet on that?" she says, because she can’t resist a wager.

"Yes.”

Discord smirks. "And what do I get when I win?"

"Uh..."

Pausing to think of something he’d be willing to lose, Deimos stops thrusting his hips, thank Nyx.

"You're my slave,” Discord says with a grin, really getting into it. “My errand boy. You get the dirty jobs and deliver messages to my armies. Or my enemies. Try not to get beaten up too bad."

Lovers or not, it would be fun to see Deimos suffer.

"And when—"

"If,” she cuts in, confident the sex will be mediocre, and he will lose.

"When I win you gotta do the same for me,” Deimos says, and that is unsurprising. He smirks. “'Cept you won't be using that pretty little mouth of yours to deliver messages, get me?"

Discord’s nose scrunches in disgust.

"You're despicable, puke."

With a laugh, Deimos says, "I try."

His laughter gradually fades, though she can tell it’s hard for him to keep from cackling, especially now Discord has stopped crying and it’s more appropriate. Not that Deimos ever cared what was appropriate behavior. The pair stare each other down, each waiting to see who will make the first move. Discord expects any moment for Deimos to capture her lips in a sloppy kiss and get this session started.

Instead he keeps a level gaze as he begins thrusting his hips again, slowly at first then into a steady rhythm. Discord moves her own pelvis in tandem, grinding his erection through his breeches. All one of them needs to do is imagine his clothing gone and it will vanish, but neither dares. She digs her nails into his shoulders and wants to voice it, but the words won’t come out. Would it count as giving in if she did it first? Would she lose the bet before they even started? Discord’s body aches to feel him inside her, that vile curiosity back from their previous gross encounter.

 “I—I want—”

“Shhh,” he says, even though she isn’t saying anything. But her vocal cords are doing that thing where they betray her pleasure, Nyx damn it.

 _Fuck it_. Discord snaps her fingers and his pants are gone. Now his warm flesh is pressed against her own. Deimos removes one hand from her hip to grip his cock while she rises on her knees to position herself. He’s well endowed, and that feeling of being stretched out and thoroughly filled, well, it doesn’t seem to get old.

“Oh—!”

“ _That’s_ it,” he says encouragingly, as she sinks down on his cock. Discord hates that those two small words have sent a delicious shiver down her spine. That’s a discovery she’s gonna fucking hate making later, isn’t it? “Easy now, Discord. Take it slow.”

“Shut up,” is her testy response, because no, she cannot have a fucking praise kink! Such a reaction is understandable when the words come from Ares, whose deep, silky tones can make his partner suck harder and stroke faster with a wordless moan, never mind explicit instruction. Deimos has the same annoying voice he’s always had. That Strife always had.

He grins, because he knows he’s struck a nerve. Deimos blinks and now his top is gone. With another blink he’s wearing nothing but his boots and earrings. Discord still has every buckle strapped and piece of armor cinched tight over her dress. Her many layers of clothing are making it difficult to ride him, and with two more blinks they’re both completely nude.

The press of bare skin is a marked improvement, and Deimos buries his face in her neck. Discord’s long hair falls in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He bites down on her shoulder, eliciting a loud gasp. Deimos scratches her bare back, running his fingernails down it, no doubt creating long red welts.

“You feel so good,” he moans.

“You better not come quick this time,” Discord says. Deimos lifts his head to look at her, smirking.

“Yeah, that ain’t happening.” He gives her thigh a light squeeze. “I can go all night.”

Discord frowns, the implications of their other encounter dawning on her.

“You came first on purpose, you weasel!”

Deimos laughs.

“What, you thought I was a minuteman? Puh-leaze.” He fucks her harder. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

Discord isn’t doing much of anything right now, too angry to move.

“You’re being a very good girl bouncing on my cock,” he says with a laugh, seemingly just to annoy her.

“Okay, ya know what, that’s it,” she snaps in irritation. “We need to set some ground rules.”

Deimos stops, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh really? And what are those?”

“Since ‘fucking my brains out until I forget my birthday and see stars’ is pretty damn vague and subjective, how about whoever orgasms first loses the bet.”

“Only once?” Deimos scoffs. “We’re gods, Discord. That’ll be over real quick.” He laughs. “And think about it, do you really want that?”

Discord rolls her eyes. “Okay, how about…the loser is whoever comes so many times they've gotta tap out and quit.”

“Hmm, sounds a lot more fair and fun.”

In Discord’s opinion, Deimos looks far too confident for a loser deity bad at everything he’s ever tried to accomplish. She can wreck him easily. He’ll come so many times he cries for mercy.

He manages to pin her first.

It’s a small couch, and wrestling for dominance depends too much on who can teleport fastest. First Discord’s on her back, then Deimos. Then there’s another flash of light, and that’s really cheating now, because two ethereal bodies are twirling around each other in a bright display of contrasting color.

They rematerialize in a puff of violet smoke on Discord’s four-post bed, Deimos lying on top. The young god looks gobsmacked, like he’s never experienced anything so strange before.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Teleporting?”

“No, I mean, that—when we—and you—”

Discord laughs.

“That happens sometimes when two gods try to materialize in the same space.  Don’t worry about—”

They haven’t kissed yet tonight, and he chooses this moment, while she’s still talking, cutting her sentence short.

“Let’s do it again,” he says excitedly.

“It was an accident, so…not exactly repeatable.”

“Come on, you’re good at this stuff. Give it a shot.”

Humoring him, Discord says, “Fine.”

Together they dematerialize into a purple mist, and two glowing white orbs of energy circle each other, sparkling in the air. When the gods’ solid bodies return looking human again, Deimos is deep inside her, Discord’s knees raised with her ankles hooked behind his back. Another shimmer and they’re gone, then reappear again seconds later, fucking even harder.

He laughs and she can’t help but join in, the joyful sound torn from her throat involuntarily. It’s infectious.

“You’re gonna come,” he says, like a sign has appeared above her head giving it away. “You’re gonna come now.” It’s a command, she realizes.

“I still remember my birthday,” she says with a smirk, chuckling at the absurdity of his initial dare.

“Oh, I know. This is just the first one.”

And she hates it, she hates it, she hates him, but she comes. Hard, shuddering, her moans loud and shameless. He doesn’t seem any closer to orgasm himself, and she’s wondering if maybe she made a mistake.

As the incredible feeling begins to fade, Discord’s mind spits her a theory, and she curses, “Oh shit.”

“What is it?” he asks, slowing his thrusts to let her recover a bit from overstimulation.

“Your mom.”

Deimos stops thrusting entirely, face scrunching in disgust.

“What about her?”

“You’re part...” Discord covers her face with one hand, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

“You’re part love god.” She mouths the last two words, like they’re dirty, taboo and forbidden from being spoken.

“What? That’s stupid. You’re stupid,” he says, looking terribly offended.

“C’mere,” she says, pulling him close, forehead to forehead. Because who cares what sort of gods they are, she needs another orgasm pronto. She needs to forget about Ares. Discord rolls her hips and tightens her ankles around his waist, encouraging Deimos to keep going.

It’s after two more orgasms that Discord rolls him onto his back. With the extra space her bed provides, they can tumble and roll and flip each other all they want. The bed affords more room and more comfort than the damp, narrow couch in Ares’ abandoned temple. It’s risky meeting here, though. The other gods know where Discord lives and how to find her.

With a few subtle hand gestures, Deimos is pinned spread-eagle to the bed. Discord doesn’t even need rope or chains. Two invisible hands hold down his wrists, two more on his ankles. Discord has her physical digits knuckle deep in his asshole now, and though she’s missing a cock, her dexterous hands still do a number on his prostate. One, two, three powerful orgasms later and the god is exhausted and begging for a break. Letting his invisible restraints go is a mistake, though, because he’s on top again, her belly down and face pressed into the mattress. Discord’s ass is next, and while not always her first choice, her body clearly feels great about it. Another score for Deimos.

But Discord still remembers her birthday, and Deimos is still getting erections.

 

* * *

 

Sometime and many more creative positions later, Discord’s on her back again, crying now from all the strain on her body. Deimos shushes her like earlier, smooths her hair back from her sweaty brow and tells her she’s doing so well, she’s being such a good girl. He must know it stopped being kinky hours ago and he gets her to laugh by saying this. She does and he smiles, and she’s glad they both find it so funny.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles, more sincerely, their hips thrusting in a slow, steady rhythm so they can catch their breath and take a break from lovemaking without letting the session end entirely. A winner hasn’t been chosen yet.

“Shut up,” she says, and he replies, “Make me,” and they both share a tired laugh together.

“What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asks. Discord looks up at him and tries to think of the right response to that joke.

“I came here for the drinks,” she says, “but I asked for a Sex on the Beach and the bartender took it literally.”

It’s stupid, oh so very stupid, but he laughs anyway, and since the bet hasn’t been settled, they hold each other tight and keep going.

Discord still remembers her birthday, not that the silly metaphor is easily disproven. She doesn’t know exactly when she appeared on this plane of existence and can only estimate. Over two thousand years, which still makes her a newborn compared to Ares. But she manages to forget about him. Forgets Xena, forgets Zeus, forgets Strife. Forgets pain and loss, and just basks in the all-consuming heat of another desperate body.

 

* * *

 

An entire day passes, twenty-four hours of tireless lovemaking only two Olympian gods can perform. The sun rises and Discord doesn’t see stars, she sees a bright, yellow ray streaming through the window. Somewhere outside a rooster is crowing, which along with the sunrise alerts them to the passage of time. The two gods sigh in relief and call it quits. Discord doesn’t want to move. Deimos makes no obvious motion to leave either, lazily flicking his wrist to materialize a soft red blanket. Discord thinks she sees golden sparkles through her half-closed eyelids, and the new blanket is a little closer to pink than crimson.

“Eww, gross,” she mumbles.

They’ve been doing a good job of cleaning over the course of their marathon sex session, so Deimos furrows his brow, wondering what could be so disgusting. Discord turns over on her side, muscles toned but not sore, since gods don’t feel pain for long. Her body doesn’t even need sleep, it just feels nice to do nothing. Deimos spoons her, which elicits another disgusted noise from her throat. He was doing some downright filthy things to her the night before, physically speaking, but any hints of his love god origins are also somewhat sickening. She’s pretty sure she fucked his mom too, once or twice. More than twice. More than deemed acceptable.

After a few peaceful hours of not sleeping, Discord sits up and looks down at her partner. He seems to have passed out. She rolls Deimos onto his back so she can stretch her limbs and throw off the now definitely pink blanket. He doesn’t say anything, so either he’s truly sleeping, or just good at resting his eyes. Then he stirs, rolling over onto his other side. Just resting, then. Boy does he deserve it! Discord gently tucks the now blood-red blanket around his body. One last icky act.

 

* * *

 

They don’t mention it, and pretend it never happened until it happens again. They’re angry this time, instead of hungry for emotional connection. More violent than before, which sends them into delightful new territory more common to Discord’s ilk than Aphrodite’s. Whips and flogs, needles and hot irons. The God of Terror’s flesh regenerates quickly, unlike any human lover Discord risks killing accidentally. Her new friend with benefits can’t just fuck her over and over for twenty-four hours, he can also tolerate torture for nearly as long. Only nearly, because he starts complaining a half hour into it. Deimos isn’t used to how Discord plays, how evil she can really be.

There’s something to be said for boring, vanilla acts like hand-jobs or quick fucks against a tree. The problem is sex becomes routine instead of an event. What does it mean, Discord wonders, when sex with Deimos is no longer on a dare or for a bet? When she doesn’t have some ulterior motive or agenda, or making up with him after a fight? What does it mean when she seeks him out, interrupts whatever dumb shit he’s doing and just takes him by the hand? It should concern her a lot sooner but doesn’t truly register for ten years. Time has flown, now Discord doesn’t give anymore fucks and isn’t on a mortal schedule. Time has gone by so fast that she hasn’t noticed the pattern.

The pattern is not lost on the Goddess of Love.

"I can see he makes you happy,” Aphrodite says one day, and Discord wants to tell her she’s wrong, but the fact is, she isn’t.

Discord swears up and down this objective truth is a filthy lie. Biologically speaking, Deimos makes her very, very happy indeed, and anyone within earshot knows it. The subtext, of course, is Aphrodite means emotionally. 

It takes gallons of Dionysus’ wine to get Discord to confess to Aphrodite secrets only Deimos has ever heard her share about Strife and Ares. Discord’s got dirt on Deimos too, after all. It’s not intimacy, it’s mutually assured destruction.

Aphrodite can tell when Discord’s lying. The love goddess is millennia older and more emotionally intelligent, but her avatar is a blonde bimbo who forces a flirty persona to mask her other uglier, more complex emotions. Discord would rather the bitch admit she’s a fraud and stop it with all the hearts and gold sparkles.

“I know my son,” Aphrodite insists, when Discord says war gods can’t feel love. That the sex they have is meaningless. As if Aphrodite knowing how Deimos ticks explains anything about how Discord feels.

The love goddess is all knowing nods and supportive smiles, and it makes Discord want to hurl.

"You don't know shit,” Discord tells her, but Aphrodite has put the thought in Discord’s head. And fifteen, twenty, maybe twenty-five years after their first awkward fuck and all-night marathon that followed, Discord finally admits the truth to herself. She and Deimos are just a bit more than friends.

 

* * *

 

“Who won?” Deimos asks her, panting.

Discord turns her head and asks incredulously, “Does it matter?”

She groans, sore and exhausted but satisfied too. Discord’s lost count of how many orgasms she’s had. She can’t believe how haughty she was when they started, so confident that she could break him. She underestimated Deimos, to say the least. Love and war duels inside his body on an elemental level, a relentlessly stirring energy. He’s not a brave man, just too stupid to say no to anything. Even while in agonizing, ecstatic pain he continued to say yes, over and over and over, until she finally said no.

His expression says it matters to him, and why wouldn’t it? His ego needs stroking, while his member takes a much-deserved break.

“Let’s just say you showed me I was…” She almost says the word “wrong,” but that’s not an easy admission to make, so she amends it to, “Misguided. For not believing you could make me feel like that.”

He’s too tired to pull a stupid face in response to this compliment. And when it comes to stupid faces, seeing Deimos orgasm a hundred times in a hundred ways over the last twenty-four hours has forever numbed Discord to any more cringey expressions.

He laughs, and even that is quietly subdued, though a quick nap will surely bring up the frequency and decibels.

“Told ya,” he says sleepily. “Oh and no lie, I think you broke me. I think I am seriously never going to come again.”

That’s not true, of course. Being a god, his avatar’s cells are endlessly regenerating. For her part, Discord can’t recall ever coming that much, that hard for that long, that many times. No being on earth or in heaven, under the sea or in the underworld, had ever even tried. Nobody felt the need to prove it could be done. Not even Ares.

They shut their eyes, just breathing, trying to keep quiet and still after so many loud hours constantly moving. They don’t need to breathe or sigh or yawn but do it anyway, because it is relaxing. Discord’s eyes flutter closed, and as they shut, Deimos flicks his wrist and a blanket materializes into existence, fluffy and pink, with a flourish of gold.


End file.
